


Hear Me

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel lost his voice in the Fall. To communicate freely, fluently, he plays the violin—until the one he loves helps him find his true voice.</p><p>  <i>Dean smiled and touched his face. It made his skin sing. Right here was his normal, his true voice, wrapped up in the body of a tired, old friend.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Me

Castiel dragged a finger over the violin's body, reading the Braille of its scratches and dents. It told him the story of a battle-torn soldier; the scars that had built its character, the wounds that had made it hardy, more durable. There was a subtle ache in the aged wood and sacrifice in the weary edges of its binding. The violin was rough and worn in places like an old friend. Bruises not black and blue, but honey gold on burnished amber varnish—imperfections that made it perfect. Though cracked and frayed, the violin still gleamed like a glass of Jack Daniel's in the soft light of his bedroom. Oblivious to its flaws, it didn't care about its limitations. Didn’t care that it was once powerful, that it was a shadow of what it had been. All it knew was that it could sing, that its voice was beautiful and strong.

That it had a voice at all.

He swallowed around the soreness of his throat. Pain he could ignore. It was the knowing that was difficult to shake, the knowledge that there was something _missing_. A vital part of him broken, an essential element that should still _be there_. He frowned and busied himself with touching, with the silent communication he’d come to rely on. The violin’s ribs relaxed under his fingers. He smiled when the damaged parts of its belly didn't glide under his skin, but scratched instead. It was an extension of him, his violin, and he knew it well, yet he turned it over in his hands, studying it as if it was the first time they'd met. Its back blazed with the "flame" of its grain. He zigzagged his fingers over the pattern. Lost himself in it until anticipation and the urge to _create_ plucked at his bones.

Gently, he turned it right-side up and tucked it neatly under his chin. Took a deep breath, held it, and brought the bow to bear. The first note always curled his toes with the beauty of its voice—and this time, it was no different. He sat up straighter in his bed as the single pitch roared down his spine. It lit the air on fire and singed his skin, leaving him impassioned and _alive_. With a sure arm and steady fingers, he played a soft melody. It was a tapestry of full, warm sounds, with highs and lows, with notes that poured like liquid from his fingertips. The violin's musical voice shouted with sharp edges and knives, then dropped like a whisper, veiled and soft like silk over skin. This was his music. His _voice_. It was crisp and clear, and with it, he yelled, laughed, and cried. It was his fevered screams at night and his prayer in the morning.

Music filled his ears and shut out the world, but didn't silence _them_. Didn't cancel out the pain or the losses. His brothers and sisters... Castiel tightened his shoulders and played, the song turning dark like obsidian glass. He'd cut himself on jagged notes, bleed through the open arteries of perfect fifths. While trying to forget, he'd escape. Drift and drift until oblivion swallowed him up.

The scent of whiskey and car oil brought him home.

He had barely registered the dip in the bed, the warmth that bled through clothing. Not until lips skirted his shoulder did he have the strength to emerge from his own head. The violin let loose a breathy sigh as strong arms wrapped around his middle. Through every note, both sorrowful and bright, they kept him safe. Sheltered.

Then, everything changed.

The kiss on his neck rounded out his notes and they deepened to something more sensual, heavy and rich. The violin seemed to stretch lazily, rolling with each of Dean’s touches as if it were a slave to his affection. Dean walked naked fingers over ribs, teethed the shell of his ear. A note sliced through the air with anticipation, then whined with need. Dean didn't hesitate. The violin screamed as fingers plunged into his pajama pants. Castiel punched out a breath and arched his back at the touch, curving into him like a cat in heat. There was a smile against his skin. The firm rub of fingers. Instinctively, his hips shot up. When Dean smoothed his hands over his arms, pulled away the violin and bow, Castiel almost didn’t notice. Then, he felt naked. Without a voice.

 _Dean_.

It was his name sign, quick on angry fingers. He wanted to play. It made him feel somewhat normal and he _needed_ normal right now. Dean grabbed his hands to hush him. Without a word, Dean cupped his face and pulled him in, kissing him. It was soft like gentle rain. Almost delicate. It promised him normal and Castiel eased into it. They fell back into the bed together, time stripping them naked in the scratchy sheets. As always, Dean let him touch his skin, explore it as though it was the first time. Castiel traced the scars on his stomach, stopped to memorize a mottled bruise. It was black and blue, perfect in its imperfection. Dean was his battle-torn hero, cracked and worn in places, with scars and wounds that didn't just live on the surface, but went bone deep. Castiel brushed his fingers lovingly over the rough, marred skin, tender spots his fingers didn't glide over. It stuttered instead, like a broken voice—somehow beautiful, fragile. Dean smiled and touched his face. It made his skin sing. Right here was his _normal_ , his true voice, wrapped up in the body of a tired, old friend.

Gently, Dean rolled him over and filled him up, leaving kisses like musical notes on the paper of his skin—Jack Daniel's on his tongue; the whisper of age and sacrifice in his weary edges. With each of Dean's thrusts, their fingers entwined, his body hummed like a violin. Dean was his extension and their steady rhythm created a song in him that would never die, that soared to its crescendo and left him hot and wet, mouth open with wordless nothing. They fell weightless together and Castiel found shelter in Dean's arms, comfort in the flames Dean drew on his back. Softly and tenderly, Dean told him he was his without telling him at all. Their love didn't need a voice. It shouted with its whisper.


End file.
